Smudged cities can warrant some trite tales.
Fantastic loves
or the loss thereof.
So here goes,
At
the last seat in town,
snug behind the
three, 2, 2, 2 desk
in a bedeviled,
rancid, glazed factory
sits a girl.
And
she's
losing to darkness
by minutes.
Wheels on her chair
back and forth towards death,
a gurney more so
than a rumble seat.
And
her hair is combed and scented so
it has the pride
of designs like honeycombs.
And it pours and
redoubles and curls on her shoulders
as thick as syrup.
And
the dainty shoes which stirrup her feet.
And her tapered
arms are too good for laundry.
Feathers, filth
or decrepit foundries.
And as much as
anyone
I love her.
And
I'd like to meet her but I already....
Have
you been outside today?
The air doesn't
have any weight.
And the breeze
still tolerates the dew.
Till' the Sun can
escape the embrace of the dinginess
Well,
at least until
a rusting hinge turns again in shadow.
Like
these flowers which bloom in my head,
budding, but forcing
mud inward. I don't say the words,
I don't say the
words. I but water them in Whisky.
Until they grow
out my mouth, the color of vomit,
spat into an old
cracked pot.
©
2006 Tom Hamilton
Tom
Hamilton is an Irish Traveler. He currently lives with the clan known
as the Mississippi Travelers. His work has appeared in over seventy
publications, including Old Crow Review, The Rockford Review
and The Main Street Rag, among many others. Along with his wife
Mary Theresa and their two small daughters, Tiffany and Hope Ann, he
lives in Memphis TN.
